Samson 06 - Charity, page 9
I got into the car and found myself trembling. I don’t know why, perhaps it was due to anger and resentment, or the memories of my father’s humiliation. I drove down to the village and stopped at the Brown Bess, It was an unfashionable little pub, sandwiched between a scum-encrusted duck pond and a neglected war memorial. Those villagers who could afford it, and the weekend inhabitants, kept to the other pub, the big multi-mirrored Queen Victoria that faced the village green, where the weekend cricketers and their adoring families could enjoy frozen food with foreign names, and champagne with a dash of blackcurrant juice. The Brown Bess was an intimate gathering place for dart-playing farm-workers. The landlord served me with an excruciating politeness bordering on hostility.
I took my beer and my Cheddar cheese sandwich and sat on the steps of the war memorial to eat it, scarcely noticing the cold. I wanted to think. To be subjected to the devious ways of my father-in-law, and then Silas Gaunt, in close succession was more than anyone should be asked to endure. I rebelled. Afterwards - when it was too late - even my most loyal friends and staunchest supporters said my plan of action had been headstrong and ill-advised. The kinder ones said uncharacteristically so. They wondered why I acted impulsively without taking one of them into my confidence, or giving more thought to the consequences.
It was David’s claim upon my children - and Fiona’s apparent indifference to it - that worried me most. The problem and possible solutions went round and round in my head. That day, sitting on the war memorial with my pint of beer, I listed on a single page of my notebook every alternative open to me; no matter how absurd or impractical. I went through each answer one by one and rejected only those that stood no chance of success. It looked like this: arguing with David would get nowhere, while fighting him through Britain’s expensive legal system would result in custody of the children for him and legal fees that would bankrupt me. With the conversation about arsenic fresh in my mind, I even considered killing him. I might have done it too; but I felt that even undetected it would provide the children with a legacy even worse than having David as a ‘father’.
To add another dimension to my predicament, I couldn’t forget the warning that an Englishman from the Warsaw embassy had given me recently. He thought the other side might take revenge on Fiona, for the way she had tricked them, by killing off her loved ones one by one and at unpredictable intervals. They had done that to a Russian defector named Simakaitis, and he’d ended up in a mental home. Well, Fiona’s sister was dead, and her brother-in-law was in trouble that might well have been contrived by Moscow. Fiona was far from well; sometimes I thought she was on the edge of a breakdown. Perhaps there was some diabolical scheme to take revenge upon the whole family. And perhaps it was working.
I made the most of my extended stay in London. The next day I went to a rendezvous in the basement of one of those second-hand bookshops that crowd the Leicester Square end of London’s Charing Cross Road. The meeting was at my request, so I could hardly argue about the venue. I had been to the shop before. It was a useful meeting place - I knew them all - and I picked my way down the narrow wooden stairs to a cellar that became a labyrinth of small rooms. Every room was crammed with old books. Here and there, free-standing racks divided the spaces so that it was a squeeze to get past them. There were books piled on the floor, and more remained unpacked in dusty cardboard cartons.
The subterranean rooms were damp, for London is a basin and we were not far from the river. The books gave off a musty smell. Encyclopedias of all shapes and sizes shared the shelves with the refought battles of wartime generals, the tarnished stars of yesterday’s show-business and the memoirs of forgotten politicians, their perceptions polished by hindsight.
Books were scattered everywhere. Some had toppled over, some were pushed sideways on to the shelves and some were on the floor as if discarded. It was as if an unexpected emergency had interrupted work here. As I passed through the low doorways from one shadowy chamber to another, I might have been exploring a prehistoric tomb, and the; depredations of robbers long since gone.
I recognized some of the books - they were positioned exactly as they had been when I was here a year or more ago. So was the Swede.
The Swede was a professional pilot. Physically powerful and unquestionably courageous, but by nature cautious. It was the perfect temperament for a man who had landed aircraft in total darkness on unfamiliar terrain, and flown out again. Systematic and serious, he was racked by the chronic back-aches and haemorrhoids that went with the flyer’s trade. Once he’d been a beautiful young man - you could see the traces of it - but neglected teeth, a roseate nose and thinning hair now made him just another senior citizen.
He was wearing a new Burberry trenchcoat, a matching tweed hat and tartan scarf: a totemic tribute to the British Tourist Authority. When I came upon him at the appointed spot in the cellar he was standing under a crudely lettered sign, ‘Bible Studies’, Although seemingly engrossed in a heavy leather-bound volume, he looked up and pushed the book back on to the shelf.
‘Always Bible Studies, Swede,’ I said. ‘Why is that?’
One hand was in the pocket of his beige trenchcoat until he brought it out to flourish i huge Colt Navy revolver, an antique gun that I knew to be of lethal accuracy. ‘Grab air!’
‘Don’t be a tiresome fool, I’m not in the mood for jokes.’
‘Bang, bang. You’re dead.’ He was short and weather-beaten, his spoken English marked by a nasal intonation that he had acquired in America.
‘Yes, I know. Do that to one of our newer kids and they will waste you.’
‘It’s a replica. I bought it in a store selling model cars and planes. It’s a perfect repro. Isn’t that neat? Exactly like the real thing. Look.’ He offered me the gun. It was a detailed reproduction. Only its light weight betrayed it. I gave it a glance and passed it back to him. I suppose it is in the nature of men who fly that they retain some childish faith in gadgets. Otherwise they might start believing in gravity.
‘It went well … that pick-up I did for you.’
‘Yes,’ I said. It wasn’t like him to mention past jobs. What was he looking for: a medal? a commendation? a pension? By now he should have learned how much the Department hated anyone they termed ‘hangers-on’, and that meant anyone who expected proper recompense.
‘It was your brother-in-law, wasn’t it? That nervous little fellow we brought out?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘That’s what I heard.’
‘Heard? Heard from who?’ I asked. He played with the gun, aiming it at the light bulbs and at the door.
‘We aviators get around.’ He looked at me: ‘Why all this special secrecy? Why London? Why not contact me through your man in Stockholm? Were you in trouble, Bernd?’
‘Listen to me, Swede,’ I said, and told him briefly what I wanted him to do. A straightforward air pick-up task, the sort of job he’d been doing for twenty years.
‘Is this for the Department?’
‘Do you think I’m going private?’
‘It will cost a lot of money. Whatever way we do it, it will cost.’
‘I know.’
‘In the old days the Irish Sea was a milk run. But since your Irish rebels started bringing in their Armalites and Semtex, the British have pointed their low-level radar that way, and keep it manned day and night.’ He pushed his gun into his pocket. ‘Where do I pick up your people? England? Where do I tell flying control I’m going? Don’t ask me to drop into some neglected little wartime strip by night, I’ve given up those jobs where you ground-loop around some pot-holes a mile deep and then hit a combine harvester. Is it worth it, Bernd? I mean, there’s no passport control between England and the Irish Republic. Immigration scarcely glance at you. I hear it’s a walk-through. What are you doing smuggling people across the water by plane?’
‘It’s not so easy. Immigration is still intact. Boats are conspicuous, and as soon as you mention Ireland they think you are in the IRA, and get on the phone to the police.’
‘Bring a speedy little Irish boat over. No?’
‘Even more conspicuous,’ I said. ‘Outboard motors and other valuable stuff are stolen, so these coastal communities are always watching out for passing strangers who might be about to rip off the boats.’
He scratched his face. ‘The smaller the better then. It might be possible to rent a plane from one of those little flying clubs in East Anglia or somewhere. Cash, no questions asked. I don’t know. I’ll have to enquire into it. How soon are you wanting to set this one up?’
‘Soon. As soon as possible.’
‘Then clubs are out. They don’t get going until the weather brightens a bit. Even renting a decent commercial ship isn’t easy at this time of year.’
‘Yes,’ I said. For him it would be complicated. He would have to do it using bogus identification and all the fake papers needed in Europe to get and fly an aircraft. Lately some rumours had been circulating that the Swede was ready to do all kinds of things that once he would have declined - drugs, arms and gold - and people were saying that he was becoming a lot less discriminating in his choice of clients. That’s the sort of nasty things the rumours were saying. I didn’t believe them of course, but when freebooters like the Swede grow old you can never be sure which way they will go. And the childish fascination he showed with his imitation gun was not reassuring.
He said: ‘It’s not for the Yanks, is it?’
‘No.’
‘Because I won’t work for the Yanks any more. They make their detailed plans and then, when the time comes, they turn everything on its tail. I don’t work for the Yanks.’
‘Yes, I know,’ I said.
In fact: the man everyone called the Swede was German, a Rhinelander named Franz Bender. In 1944 he was a young civilian pilot working for Messerschmitt at Augsburg. When the war ended, American air force specialists went and grabbed the Messerschmitt jet fighters, the engineers, designers and the pilots too. I can only guess what stories he told them, but the truth was that he was only qualified on light planes. But the Americans believed him. They found American army uniforms to fit them all and smuggled them back to the US. I don’t know if he ever had to prove he could fly one of those wartime jets, but they kept him on. He lived on the American base at Wright Field for nearly three years, teaching what he knew about flying and servicing jet planes, and making up the rest. He was good at translating Luftwaffe training manuals into American-style English. They paid him a generous civilian salary; gave him a car and an apartment. He had lots of girlfriends. He was a good-looking kid and his accent delighted them.
Then one night, coming back from a party, a cop pulled him over for speeding. He had no driver’s licence, no social security card and, when he admitted he was an alien, not even a passport to prove who he was. The cop was a tough vet from the 82nd Airborne and not sympathetic to Germans in any shape or form. Neither did much sympathy come from the other officials Franz encountered. The war was over and those American pals of his, who might have pulled strings to help him, had become civilians and disappeared. No one was prepared to help him. US Immigration held him in custody for almost six months, but no lawyer stuck with him and he was deported to Germany. Although the charges against him were dropped he was banned from entering the States ever again. He’d never forgiven the Americans for what he regarded as an act of betrayal.
‘Perhaps you are making a big production out of it,’ I said. ‘Couldn’t we have a wealthy Swedish national, in a Swedish-registered aircraft, on holiday - flying here and there to amuse his friends?’
Still waving the gun around he suddenly said: ‘It’s your kids, isn’t it Bernd?’
If he had shot a hole in the Information Please Almanac for 1965, and made it bleed, he could not have shaken me more. Was it that obvious? Did everyone know so much about my personal life that they could guess what I might do next? ‘Give over,’ I said.
‘They will find them and send them back. It’s the Hague Convention: custody hearings always take place in the jurisdiction where children are normally resident. What’s more, those stupid judges always send the kids to the country where they have spent most time. I know, my cousin went through that stuff. The judge was a clown, and the social services led him by the nose all the time. They’ll get you in the end like they did him.’
‘Do you charge for this kind of advice? Or does it go with the air ticket?’
He shrugged: ‘Okay. It’s no concern of mine, but don’t ask me to get involved.’
‘Just steer the big bird, Swede.’
‘Are you sure you are not in trouble, Bernd?’
‘I told you, no,’ I said.
‘With your people? Or the opposition? You want to disappear, I’ll tell you many places a million times better than Ireland.’ I didn’t answer. He stared at me while his mind whirled. ‘Or are you going to run across to Cork and climb aboard that Aeroflot connection that flies direct to Havana?’ Slowly he smiled. ‘You cunning bastard. And from Cuba where?’
‘Why all these questions?’ The Swede had always been taciturn and positive, now he had become a garrulous fool.
‘Because it all stinks, Bernd,’ he said feelingly. ‘The way you tell it, it stinks. I’ve never had worse vibrations than I’m getting now.’ He took off his new hat with a sigh, and rubbed the bright red line it had left on his forehead.
‘You need a size larger hat,’ I said. ‘Or maybe a size smaller head.’
He shuffled his feet, gave me a silly smile and then looked at his shoes. We both knew that he’d have to do it. I wouldn’t have compromised myself in this way unless I’d been sure of him. Over the years the Department had given him a steady supply of well-paid jobs. Whatever he suspected about this being a private job, he wasn’t likely to risk losing a contact like me: ‘Look, Bernd. We’ve known each other a long time and we’ve both done each other a few favours over the years, so I’m not sure which of us owes what to who. But the only reason I am standing here indulging you in this mad idea is because I know there is not the slightest chance of your getting anyone else to even think about taking it on.’
‘Short take-off and landing. Single engine I think; there’s not much room at the Irish end. Grass, of course, but it’s used by a club so there’s no obstructions worse than hedges. I’ll get someone to take a close look at its condition when we get nearer the time.’
He didn’t reply for a moment, then he said: ‘This is not Nintendo; this is not a compute;’ game we are playing: zap the pixels and the screen goes dark. Putting an airplane down on to a garbage dump in pitch darkness is for keeps. Pilots don’t benefit from their mistakes, Bernd. Pilots don’t benefit from their mistakes because the poor bastards don’t live long enough after the first mistake to benefit.’
I’d heard it all before of course. These black-sky pilots liked you to know they were earning their fees. ‘Okay, Swede,’ I said. ‘Put away the violin.’
‘I can keep my mouth shut,’ he said. ‘I flew the plane for your friend Volkmann that night when it all happened. I kept that quiet, didn’t I? You didn’t know that, did you?’
‘No,’ I said, and my ears were flapping. I was trying to remember if he had met Werner., and if so where and when. ‘Did Volkmann fly that night?’
‘Not Volkmann. The plane wasn’t intended for him, he was just the one who sent me the order. The plane was for your buddy Prettyman.’
‘Prettyman?’
‘Don’t play dumb, Bernd. Jay Prettyman, the Department’s arm’s-length hatchet nun. The white-faced one -the spooky guy with no eyebrows.’
‘Yes, Jay Prettyman. I know him.’
‘Of course you know him. He was one of your close buddies, wasn’t he?’
‘I don’t have any close buddies,’ I said.
‘And I’m beginning to understand why,’ said the Swede. ‘He briefed me. I was to wait for him to arrive no matter how long. I had a package for him. He was to climb aboard and I would fly him out to England. The timing was important. They found an early-morning slot for me at Gatwick. I didn’t want to get there too early and attract a lot of attention with the flight-control people. They are all Gestapo.’
‘Yes,’ I said. The Swede regarded all authority with contempt. Even the flight controllers were classified as mortal enemies rather than saviours. ‘Tell me more.’
‘It was almost light before anyone arrived. When the car came it wasn’t Prettyman. The arrangement was that Prettyman would be riding a bicycle. I’d take the bicycle with us. It gave him a chance to hide the car away somewhere. I’d taken my seats out to make space for it. I’d even tried a bicycle inside to make sure there was no difficulty getting it through the door.’
Good careful Swede. ‘But it was a car that arrived?’
‘I guessed something had gone badly wrong. Your wife was being extracted by road, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And who was in the car?’
‘A woman. She wouldn’t fly with me. She just told me to get out: of there as soon as possible. She told me to go home and forget about it. She said I’d be paid a bonus for being kept waiting. I knew that was bullshit. Did you ever hear of those bastards paying a black-sky for being delayed?’
‘Who was it? Someone you recognized?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I gave her the package and I took off out of there.’
‘Don’t start playing smartass with me, Swede.’
‘I said I don’t know. That means I don’t know. Got it?’ He was suddenly aggressive as he perhaps realized that he was saying more than he intended,
